


Ailments and Acquistions

by Sidrisa



Series: 1000 Points of Light [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Shopping, Sick Character, Sickfic, why am I bad at tagging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-11-19 04:50:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11306031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sidrisa/pseuds/Sidrisa
Summary: Someone is sick.Someone is in love.Nobody can tell the difference.**Companion to Mischief and Misunderstandings + Returns and Readjustments taking place sometime early in Power and Magic





	1. Loki: You've Got It Bad

**Author's Note:**

> I AM NOT DEAD!
> 
> I know I left Returns and Readjustments unfinished. IT'S COMING BUT WRITERS BLOCK SUCKS. Rest assured these children are on my mind 60% of the time all of the time and I'm working to finish works and bring you more.
> 
> For now, please accept this hurt/comfort fluffy sick!fic as payment for my hiatus. 
> 
> This bounces between POVs and takes place early in Power and Magic and beyond :D

Disgust? Of course.

 

Rudeness? Absolutely, you are frequently rude anyway.

 

Cruelty? Definitely, it might actually excite him.

 

Loki could stand those things from you, just as he could your fondness, and affection, the way you slide closer to him when you walk together to slip a few of your fingers between his. 

 

Your easy friendship. 

 

Your starlight strewn smile.

 

Your kiss.

 

Your....

 

Loki swallows the foolish sigh bubbling up his throat. _Now is not the time!_ He’s supposed to be angry with you. But just _thinking_ about you makes his anger never rise above a mild annoyance. It’s disturbing really, how a moment’s thought of you is enough to excuse your behavior.

 

He can take your cruelty.

 

And your affection.

 

But your apathy is untenable.

 

Twice he’s sent for you, twice you haven’t replied, and he’s wasted a whole day on tenterhooks waiting for you.

 

He tries to be furious as he stalks the halls to your chamber but the thought of finally seeing you waters down the rage.

 

But…

 

He must put on a good show.

 

He doesn’t knock, feels he doesn’t have to. He owns this place, pays the wages of that damnable servant you employ-- the one with the tongue as sharp as her eyeliner. He’s responsible for the silks in your closet you don’t wear, and the jewels you do, so as far as he’s concerned you owe him an explanation. It's all he wants really--just a moment to see your face. He’s willing to forgive you, your neglect, provided that you never let it happen again.

 

He barges in your solar unannounced.

 

And its empty. The two notes he sent you lie on a table, his wax seal still whole. Passionate muffled voices carry from behind a closed door. Yours, and a male voice.

 

And a moan.

 

He was willing to forgive you before, and he still may. Right after he immolates whoever  _ dared _

 

He opens the door in the middle of his revenge fantasy.

 

The room is hot...far too hot. It reeks of sweat and

 

Sickness.

 

He heard correctly, your voice, a male voice, and a moan. But the moan is coming from a lump buried under blankets, and the rising, high-pitched sound he mistook for passion is actually fury.

  
“What do you mean there’s nothing you can do! She’s sick!”

 

The man is dressed in austere white robes and his expression is as flat as his voice. “Madam, I’ve told you, it’s just a cold.”

  
“Colds don’t do this!” When you shriek, the little bundle cries out and you soften, murmuring apologies. 

 

“With all do respect madam, are you a healer?”

 

You flinch. “No.”   
  


“Well I am. And have been for generations. This is a common cold, curable with time and rest.”

 

The room is uncommonly hot, the fireplace barely holds the flames you have stoked there but even buried under blankets he can see the form shivering. 

 

If he had an ounce of humility, he’d feel shame for his thoughts. But trust is as new to him as the tightness in his chest he gets when he sees you wreathed in fire light, once going far enough to believe it an actual illness.

 

His mother only looked at him, called him a fool, and sent him on his way with a note to the florist not the apothecary.

 

“You need flowers, not medicine. You’re in love, boy, not sick. Though I understand it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.”

 

It is hard. Though he can tell it is an actual sickness that afflicts the girl, that you are sick with worry, and this healer doesn’t give a damn about either. His rage returns and he finally has a good reason for it.

 

“And you call yourself a healer?”

 

“Loki?”

 

“Lord Loki!”

 

To his dismay you bow too, an annoying habit you’ve adopted after he saved your life from those bandits. Something he’s frequently told you not to do, the companion of a prince needn’t bow to him. If trust is new to him, obedience is to you. No matter, he’ll enjoy correcting you, but first.

 

“My mother would be ashamed to see her chosen servants employ such callousness. Do you wish to shame my mother, your queen?!”

 

The healer stammers through his answer. “N-no my lord.”

 

“Ah, but you have in your unfeeling mistreatment of a child. A child! The reputation of her healers will surely suffer. It’ll break her heart to hear of this.”

 

“She...she needn’t know my lord!”

 

“You think I’ll remain quiet after what I’ve seen? Bribery on top of incompetence?”

 

“NO!”

 

The servant falls to his knees and presses his face to the marble. “No one need know, I’ll go, you’ll never me see me again. I promise!”

 

“Well, if you insist. And I hope you do insist.”

 

“I do.”

 

“So,” he rests his hands on the dagger at his hip, fingers curling around the hilt as a smile curls around his mouth. “Honor your promise.”

 

The healer scrambles to his feet and scurries out the door.

 

He watches him go, satisfied before turning to his real task.

 

“And you.” 

 

It feels like fingers are on his heart, squeezing, but instead of pain he feels...excitement, like the next step he takes towards you could vault him into the clouds.

 

“What have I told you about bowing to me?”

 

“You’re a prince, I’m a guest, proper respect…”

 

He does vault with his next step, into your space, hands around your face, his lips to your lips.

 

If this is love, then it is a disease of time. Makes him feel like he hasn’t seen you in ages when it’s only been a day. Makes his kiss last a lifetime, when it’s only been a heartbeat. 

 

Love is also a disease of greed. Because when you pull away, by stars, he has not had enough.

 

“How’s that for proper respect?”


	2. The Princess: Wild Thoughts

 

He’d make you melt if you hadn’t already. You keep the fire high, winter in Asgard is nothing like winter back home. Here it brings snowdrifts as tall as men, at home, snow only dusts the grass at night and it’s gone by sunrise the next day. But no matter how many logs you’ve fed the fire, Se’risa shivers as she sweats.

 

You found her like this. She wouldn’t rise for school even when threatened with spending the whole day with Niti. She just wouldn’t move. She complained of heat but shook like she was freezing. Any food, even the thinnest broth, came back up. The doctor you summoned shrugged and offered herbs that did nothing. Even Lady Frigga could not answer your call. So you stayed all day, shut everyone and everything out keeping watch over her and wishing you had your Sages here to help. But they were a country, a crown, and two killers away.

 

“So here’s where you’ve been spending your day.”

 

You nod, turning from him, reaching for the rag in the water basin to get rid of the new sheen of sweat on Se’risa’s face. She flinches from you, the cold sends her into fits.

 

“Be still,” you urge her gently, but she still twists in the sheets from you. She groans and it sounds like she’s calling for her mother.

 

“Yes, and it’s where I’ll spend more days until she’s better so I’m sorry if you had other …um...”

 

You falter on what to say next, knowing the proper words but floundering over a more delicate way to put them. Desire isn’t new to you, someone else’s desire for you though...Those are wild lands, wild thoughts, and you can’t allow yourself to be distracted by them now.

 

But Loki has no care for delicacy. “If I had other what? Designs? Desires?” His grin stretches as he stretches the word, purring on the syllables. Really, you’d melt if you hadn’t already.

 

“Plans!” You blurt. “And keep your voice down.”

 

“Oh I can keep quiet. Can you though?”

 

“Loki please,” you plead, warmth rising up the column of your neck.

 

“What? Of the two of use you’re the only one who’s raised your voice. I wonder where your thoughts were?”

 

He chuckles as you huffily turn from him, heat in your cheeks outstripping the heat of the room. But his laugh he keeps low, soft as whisper, closing the door behind him with a flick of his fingers when an errant breeze makes the child shake.

 

“Can you help her?” All day you hadn’t thought to ask him. Of Se’risa he’s often said that he wouldn’t suffer a rival for your affection. You think he can’t quite grasp what she means to you.

 

“We are all we have.” You told him once. 

 

“Fine,” He answered, leaving you, and afterward you two didn’t speak for a week. Thor himself dragged him bodily to your feet.

 

“I have no idea why you are fighting, but please, for the love of the Void, fix it before he drives me crazier than usual.”

 

Now his face is inscrutable, you can tell he’s trying to choose between the answer he wants to give and the answer that’s the truth.

 

“No.”

 

And you don’t know how you can tell.

 

“But I will help you in whatever way I can.”

 

But you know he’s telling the truth.

 

**

 

It shouldn’t surprise you how content he is with silence. He’s always measured and still. Not gentle, but still. With a whisper he can bring you to your knees, he enjoys doing so and you enjoy it too. His effortless stillness thrills you. Your lover is a raindrop that can summon a storm in a blink and go back to a quiet drizzle in the next. 

 

He doesn’t need to fill time or space with empty chatter. He sits, far from the fire, reading a book, turning the pages with his magic, seemingly content to just be near. And you're content to have him. You've been alone with morbid thoughts for most of the day. He offers nothing but his presence, and yet it is enough to keep the doubts at bay.

 

“Don’t you have a nursemaid for this?” He snaps the silence in half, cutting it open with his chilly indifference.

 

“She doesn’t need a nursemaid,” you snap back.

 

“You’re right,” he concedes. “She needs a mother.”

 

Your breath catches on the memory of the last time you saw her. A halberd sticks in her gut because you were a breath too late. “Her mother is dead, Loki.”

 

“I know. And there are women who would delight in taking up your burden.”

 

“She’s not a burden! We are…”

 

“All we have,” he finishes for you. “And all I mean to say is that there are plenty of widows down in the market who would happily dote upon the child so you don’t have to. You could see her whenever you wanted, send her gift if that’s your fancy, and leave her care to more devoted hands.”

 

You’re not a mother, it’s not something you’ve ever thought of but you can’t imagine having Se’risa cared for by anyone but you. “If that’s just your way of getting rid of...wait...say that again.”

 

“Widows, barren women, down in the market?”

 

“The market!” You clap but wince when Se’risa flinches at the sound. “Oh, sorry sorry sorry sweetling. The market,” You whisper. “Maybe I could find something that could help her there! Time and rest is only making her worse. Will you take me? I’ve never been there before.”

 

Loki scoffs. “What’s in it for me?”

 

You make a pained noise. “You said you’d help in whatever way.”

 

“Yes, but I never said for free.”

 

You groan but keep it low. “Her life is potentially on the line and you want to discuss payment?”

 

He’s silent, expectant, grin growing wider the longer you hesitate to accept the inevitable. 

 

Loki does nothing for free.

 

“Ugh. Name your price.”

 

You think he’s going to ask for time alone with your undivided attention. Perhaps he’ll want to secret you away and return you with a crooked back and weakened knees. And if he did, you...you can’t say you’d mind, wild thoughts turning to wilder fantasies. But when he rises from his chair and swallows your whole space with his presence, you understand implicitly you’d do whatever he asks.

 

And he asks simply…

 

“A kiss from a Princess. That’s all I want.”

 

With a wild grin to match wilder thoughts, you pay, gladly, and double his payment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rihanna reference?  
> In this economy?  
> You bet your sweet, sweet, ass.
> 
> Thank you so much for the warm reception, it ensures more to come.


	3. Loki: Language Arts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU THANK YOU for all the kind words and encouragements y'all leave behind.

You take far too long to prepare for the market.

 

“It’s freezing out there.” You protest draping your second cloak over your shoulders.

 

“It’s only snow.”

 

“Consider where I come from, snow’s more magic than weather.”

 

“What, you only have one season down there?”

 

You chuckle. “Of course not. We have seasons too. Summer, mild summer, cool summer, and Hel.”

 

“Ugh. Sounds dreadful, hope I we never have reason to visit.”

 

“You really hate the Southlands that much?” There’s hurt in your question and he remembers belatedly your home and how you left it. He apologizes with his answer, grazing his knuckles across your cheek.

 

“Not all of it.”

 

**

You take even more time murmuring goodbyes to the child, whispering words he can’t understand. The details of your language are still strange to him. He takes great joy in making you curse or sigh in your mother tongue, the slip caused by either great frustration or….greater delights. But he’s never had the chance to simply hear you speak. There’s too many hard consonants for him to call it musical but with the way your voice lilts it sounds sweet. Like you’re praying for her. Either for strength or returned wellness.

 

Jealousy chills the warmth in his chest, making him wish you had cause to speak to him that way. Jealous of a sick child, this is what you’ve reduced him to. Even knowing better does nothing to stop the creeping sensation from twisting around him and choking off a kind word for the girl.

 

He doesn’t suffer rivals! He either eliminates competition or refuses to play the game. And now, with you, he finds himself unable to do either.

 

What madness. It sickens him.

 

You leave your servant in charge of Se’risa with directions to send a page should she take a turn for the worse. But before you can finally leave, You’re not dressed,” you accuse.

 

He quirks an eyebrow knowing he’s clad from head to toe in his signature green and gold and black leather. “Excuse me?”

 

“You’ll freeze! It’s Jotunheim out there.”

 

“Your concern, while quaint, is unnecessary. The cold doesn’t bother me.”   
  


“But still!” Exasperated, he watches as you root about your closet pulling free a black fur cloak that you drape around his shoulders.

 

“What is?...Agh! I don’t! Too tight!”

 

“Quiet! And be still.”

 

He stiffens and lets you finish knotting the string around his neck. The cloak is hot and itchy and ugly and smells but he knows he’s going to wear it for the whole damn day because of this  _ look _ you give him when you’re done. You smooth the wrinkles of the cloak and let your hands linger in the fur. He hears the softest, fondest sigh he’s ever heard from you and that lingering sickness disappears.

 

“Princess?”

 

His voice shakes you loose from whatever memory’s taken hold of you. Your hand jerks away from him, your warmth leaves him, and he feels a chill.

 

“S-Sorry, there, all done.”

 

He doesn’t press the matter as you turn from him, not even when he sees you try to surreptitiously wipe the tears from your eyes. Stars knows he has his secrets, you should be allowed yours too. 

 

**

 

He  _ hates _ the market. It’s all fishmongers and cloth hawkers who do nothing but scramble to throw their wares at anyone who even smells like they have coin. On state visits they choke the walkways shoving jewels and filth into his face all but begging for him and his family to buy. His mother, of course, affords them patience and liberal coin, while his brother laughs and takes whatever's given to him, tossing money in the air for the merchants to scrap over. It’s too loud, too noisy, too smelly, and too filthy and he, a prince, is getting ready to walk in the thick of it without complaint.

 

“We could have just told the servant to come here instead, you know.”

 

You pay him no attention, sticking your face in a stall selling incense.

 

“I don’t...what I need I can’t explain in your language. I’ll know it when I see it...or smell it.”

 

He groans. “Then we’ll be here forever.”

 

“Is that really so bad?”

 

No.

 

“Yes.” He lies, madness temporarily taking over his senses.

 

“I’m looking for camphor.” The merchant stares at you, uncomprehending. And he himself isn’t much more help.

 

“Uh...camphor. Ehh...it’s….camphor? Has a strong smell when it burns?” The merchant passes several sticks and oils for you to sniff, you turn them all down before finding one that makes your eyes light up.

 

“This!” You inhale deeply then pass to him to sniff.

 

If feels like his nose is on fire. “Oh what in Stars name--!”

 

You buy a bundle of it, then hand the merchant the money and him the bag.

 

“I am not your--”

 

“Oh! Here!” You dart between bodies having found something else you need.

 

Loki sighs and follows, tucking your purchase under his arm. Madness controlling him again.

 

“Ok.” You mark your list off on your fingers. “I need greens and maize cakes. The juice from the boiled greens will cure any ailment, or at least that’s what Hava used to say. Maize cakes are for comfort. Do you have…?”

 

You look at him and he makes his indifference known and felt.

 

“Never mind, you probably don’t.”

 

It’s like this for an hour. You dragging him to stall after stall and him following, dutifully, the cloak doing wonders for his anonymity. He supposes you’ve hit upon something with this monstrous thing but he’ll never tell you that. For now he’s grateful no one’s trying to sell him a bucket of fishheads.

 

“Ruhun nana?”

 

His heart jumps to hear the purr in your voice, and again, jealousy takes hold of him. Se’risa and now this unworthy shopkeep get to hear you speak like that. He’s angry enough to dump your purchases in the dirt and leave you. But he’s too invested in hearing more to move a single inch.

 

And the simple merchant shakes their head having no idea what you’re talking about.

 

“Ruhun...ruhun.” Your ‘r’ trills and your voice deepens, thickens. You could be talking about filth and he’d think it treasure. “You uh...you grind it into a paste, stick it in your nose and on your chest when you’re sick. Spicy...it’s spicy…”

 

He’s fascinated watching your mind work, watching _ you _ work, watching you unlock his language and translate it into yours. You know how to haggle and bargain. You speak effortlessly with the common folk. You are a princess but he remembers that means something different where you’re from. Unique.

 

Beautiful.

 

He smiles despite himself, thankful the cloak obscures the goofy look on his face.

 

“Black...spicy...Pepper...Peppermint! Ruhun nana: peppermint!”

 

“Ah! Yes we have plenty, here mistress!”

 

You take the thin green leaves and press them into his hand. “Ruhun nana. You try.”

 

“Ru. hun. Na. na.”

 

You giggle at his weak attempt annoys him but your smile makes him hot with fever. You snap a leaf free from the stem and hold it to him to smell.

 

“Grind this into paste, boil it in water and inhale the fumes. Or smear the paste on your chest. Cures everything. Ruhun nana.”

 

“Ruhu. n. Nan. a.” He says it poorly on purpose, he wants to hear you correct him.

 

“Ruhun nana.” 

 

The hood on his ugly cloak hides his smile.


	4. The Princess: Playing Pretend

 

Papa’s fingers slips into yours as he draws the hood of the cloak tight around his head. He puts a finger to his lips, and though the hood conceals his face, you see him wink.

 

“Now, it won’t be fun if you can’t keep secret. I’m just papa today. Not King Papa. Just papa.”

 

“Am I not a princess then?”

 

“Oh you’ll always be a princess, but here, just for a little while, you’re  _ a _ princess, not  _ the _ princess.”

 

“Playing pretend?”

 

“Playing pretend.”

 

It’s the same here. You’re a princess, not the princess, but you’re an exile and from the Southlands. You’re sure no one here cares about that particular distinction.

 

But Loki, even with your father’s black cloak hiding his features, still looks like  _ a _ prince, just not  _ the _ prince. But even in burlap he’d still look princely. Which as far as these merchants are concerned, means nothing, unless he’s spending his princely coin on them.

 

You loved playing pretend with your father. No guards to follow and no rules of propriety to keep. You were just a daughter out with her father, enjoying the wonders of the market.

 

And here, now, it’s the same. You’re a woman, out with her prince, enjoying those same wonders. 

 

“Oh beauty, you’ve stricken me blind.” 

 

A hand closes around your wrist and pulls. Shocked by the absurdity, you follow, and Loki close behind. It’s a merchant, a man, kohl eyed and handsome--and he knows it. He has an expertly manicured moustache that curls until the tips touch each half of his nose, black as jet and waxed to perfection. He’s darker than any Asgardian you’ve ever seen but he’s not the same deep brown you are. He’s like dusk while you are midnight.

 

“Princess. For surely you can’t be anything but.” The hand at your wrist slides down until he’s grasping your fingers, thumb sliding over your knuckles in far too much familiarity. But he’s tender in his touch, friendly in his gaze, and playful in his voice creating this aura of affection that disarms you utterly.

 

He’s stunning, literally. 

 

“What a hand and what a shame for this hand to be bare. I can fix that.”

 

He does, he brings your hand to his lips and dresses it with a kiss.

 

Your chuckle stutters, as does your pulse. You’re being wooed. 

 

“But a kiss isn’t enough to dress such a tragically bare hand. Where is your ring?”

 

Your answer trips over a tied tongue.“R-Ring, sir?”

 

“Yes, the one your husband gave you.”

 

You choke. “Husband? I...ehh...I don’t.”

 

“Blasphemy. Surely you…”

 

He glances at Loki who you’re sure is contemplating murder under that hood, one half second away from tearing you from the handsy jewel dealer. But he keeps his temper and countenance even, staring dispassionately like one might stare at something mildly entertaining but ultimately irrelevant.

 

The merchant makes a thoughtful noise, like a figure in his ledger didn’t add up right. He adjusts his equations and produces a beautiful jeweled ring, with a stone the size and color of a wren’s egg. He slips it on your finger before you can pull away your hand.

 

“Ahh! Perfect. The Elven smith I bought this from said it’d only fit on the hand of a Princess. And here you are.”

 

“H-how convenient.” He’s a merchant you remember, he’s trying to part you from your money, but the skeptical huff you mean to give him comes out like a girlish sigh.

 

 

“What you call convenient, I call fate.” Mr. Merchant returns, but before he can lay another kiss to your knuckles, Loki finally steps in, voice tearing off the ends of his words like bloody chunks of meat.

 

“And just how much is this fate?” 

 

Mr. Merchant smiles and responds evenly, unphased. “For her, only an evening of her time. The pleasure of her presence would be more than enough. But you,” Mr. Merchant gives the prince an appraising glance from boot to brow. “You might incur a more mercantile cost.”

 

Your laugh might spark a fight, so you keep it, making a note to share it with Niti later. 

 

“You’ve interrupted us and the lady doesn’t want your paste and glass.”

 

“Why don’t you ask the lady that.”

 

His green eyes narrow, sharpening until their vision cuts.  

 

“I uh...well. It is too rich a treasure and I really couldn’t.”

 

You hope he doesn’t insist. Welcomes have been overstayed, the merchant’s, yours, and Loki’s. Linger and there will be a fight. “Of course, I completely understand.” No one makes a sound save your relieved exhale. Then Mr. Merchant slips the ring from your finger and some of the brightness in his face dims when he lets you go. “This ring will have to bear having a less worthy owner.”

 

You try to smooth the violent awkwardness with a smile. “You’re too kind.”

 

“Don’t mistake my sincerity for kindness, dear princess, or a business model. I meant everything I said.”

 

Loki shoves you away before you thank him, or ask his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are great! Thanks for the kind words!  
> I know what I want to happen but I don't know how long it'll take to make it so. Don't expect this to be too terribly long. Enjoy the ride :)


	5. Loki: An Inconvenient Truth pt 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whereupon we remind everyone Loki is a petulant dick with a heart of tarnished gold he's has to work on to buff out.
> 
> Gah! I'm veering off the rails again. This was supposed to be simple sick!fic but here we are.  
> Enjoy as we multi track drift.

You follow willingly but he keeps light pressure at the small of your back, ostensibly to keep you from running, not that he really believes you would, but he knows why his hand is there. You’ve proven subject to the whims of flattering words delivered with fluttered eyelashes and stars knows this market is full of such rakes that are a smile away from parting you from your coin.

 

_ Him.  _ He thinks.

 

Your coin, he corrects. 

 

Jealousy is unbecoming a prince, not that he gives a damn, but he’s still glad he can quiet the guilt buzzing about his ears with a legitimate concern.

 

He guides you around the corner out of sight of the jeweler, folds his arms, and waits. He’ll make you see the truth, and clear his conscious whole.

 

“I’m waiting.”

 

“For?” 

 

“Your gratitude. If it weren’t for me you would have bought that garbage.”

 

“What?” You don’t look angry, you haven’t learned his tells yet. Lying and concealing truth are two different things and it’s the latter he’s poor at. Not bad….Just poor.

 

If he was really concerned about money he’d just give you more. Surely you know that. Surely your star-lit eyes will see right through his deception, but they dim instead, avert to the snow piling up on your boot.

 

“I-I was never going to really buy it. He said he would…”

 

“You really thought he would just give it to you?”

 

“Well he…”

 

You’ve unwittingly gifted him with an out, one he presses far too hard.

 

“No. He would have come up with a reason to show you another ring, then another, then another, until he was confident he found the one you could have reasonably afforded. He gets his money, you get his trash.”

 

Bold supposition but it’s what he would have done. Take advantage of your generous, foolish heart.

 

_ “Oh no, this is too rich.” _

_   
_ _ “Then what about this?” _

 

_ “Well…” _

 

_ “Or this…?” _

 

_ “I….” _

 

_ “Or this one….?” _

 

_ “I guess I could…” _

 

_ “Perfect!” _

 

In concealing his truth, he’s hit upon an uncomfortable one of yours. You fidget under his admonishing glare but he keeps going, free and clear.

 

“That man’s a merchant, Princess. A good one, a rich one. He has as many rings on his fingers as he sells. If he gave away his stock at every pretty face, he’d be a beggar. Look.”

 

You turn and see Mr. Merchant smiling, petting the hand of a pretty woman while a young child tugs at her skirts restlessly. But the woman ignores the child, captivated as the merchant whispers something in her ears that causes her to giggle...then reach for her coin purse.

 

“See? You can’t tell me you honestly thought…”

 

In pressing his advantage, he’s gone too far. He sees the frisson of anger ripple through you, he braces himself for your deserved anger, but you don’t shout. You open your mouth and half your words are obscured with a cough from the cold air.

 

“What?”

 

“I did alright, I did honestly think.”

 

“You fell for…”

 

“Look I know. Foolish! I get it. I know he’s a merchant. I know all he wants to do is sell his junk. I know! I was ok with that. I didn’t fall for anything, I went willingly.”

 

“Then why…”

 

“Because it was nice okay! Manufactured or not, it...was...”

 

You cough, stuttering on your words like you’re afraid of saying something that might offend him. 

 

“Nice,” he supplies for you keenly aware his jealousy may not be so baseless after all. So he presses his advantage again. “I think I understand now. After all what is a prince but poor company in comparison to the many talents of a mere merchant?”

 

“No. That’s not what I--,” Too much cold air gets the better of you, and your retort is cut off with more coughing.

 

“Then what is it, hm? What charms do I lack Princess?” He means it to be cold and he’s satisfied when you shiver knowing full well it’s just the wind.

 

“You don’t lack any! I don’t want you to act or be a way you’re not, you wouldn’t be  _ you. _ And I like you. But you aren’t… You don’t... ” You cough again, nervous. “The attention was nice.” You  finally mutter, like you’re ashamed of it, completely forgetting he is a creature of constant validation good or bad. What you’re ashamed of he feeds on. 

 

But it’ll be a cold day in Hel before his mouth ever lets good sense keep it quiet. “And what I pay you is not enough?”

 

You look at him frankly and answer truthfully, “Loki, attention with you really only flows one way.” 

 

Silence whistles between you on a frosty wind. You draw your scarf around your mouth and neck like shield against the cold and whatever words he might spit back.

 

“Well?”

 

“Well what Princess?”

 

“Aren’t you going to say any anything?”

 

“What is there to say? You’re right.”

 

“Wow...getting you to say that doesn’t feel like the victory I thought it’d be.”

 

“I live to disappoint.”

 

“Loki I don’t mean it…”

 

“Of course you don’t. What’s next on your grocery list?”

 

“Right...I think it’s.” You look up and scan the stalls searching for the next item you need. “This way.”

 

He lets you get a few paces ahead of him, then turns around, and walks in a completely different direction.

 

**

 

He’s not concerned with how you’ll fare in the market alone. You’re a soldier first and a princess second, likely more worldly than he is. You’ll be fine. 

 

“Better without me even.” He grumbles, toeing the slushy, snowy mud as he wanders aimlessly through the market.

 

No one ever likes to hear they’re lacking, no matter how true, no matter if he himself asked.  He’s always accepted that he’s a vain, selfish, jealous creature but he’s unprepared for how his qualities might affect people who matter. 

 

People he loves. 

 

Disappointment is an odd, alien feeling when it’s coming from himself. Makes him ill, makes him finally feel the chill of the wind numbing the shells of his ears and the tip of his nose. 

 

He adjusts his cloak, shakes the snow off it, and pulls it tighter around his neck and shoulders.

 

“Alle Sarkin! Alle Sarkin!”

 

A timid hand touches his shoulder and he wheels around to see a woman bound in so many scarves and cloaks her body could furnish a textile shop for months. The only thing that proves she’s not a golem of fabric is a stripe of brown skin where two deep amber eyes peer at him before widening in shock and horror.

 

“Granmanmae! Granmanmae! I am so sorry sir.”

 

A young man comes running and takes the woman by the hand. He’s paler skinned and hardier in the cold than his grandmother, wearing maybe a third of the scarves and cloaks she is.

 

“Is there a problem?”

 

“No...no problem sir. Excuse us.”

 

He tries to lead the woman away but her feet remained rooted. He whispers something curt and she snaps back in tones he’s heard before.

 

From you.

 

“There’s obviously a problem.” Loki sneers.

 

“No..really...no problem. She just thought you were someone else is all.” 

 

“I see that. Who?

 

“No one important.” He brushes off the question as he manages to half carry-half drag his obstinate grandmother away. “Grandma, we have to get back to the stall, thieves will…”

 

“Boy! I asked you a question!”

 

The woman stops fighting and the boy stops dragging her away. They are both shorter than he is. She’s bent by wind and age, and his adolescence is preoccupied with the wispy stubble under his nose. But they stand, finally of similar mind. She speaks your language, he speaks his, but they both say the same thing. 

 

_ He is no one’s boy. _

 

Loki blinks, sufficiently and publicly chastened. “Apologies. I meant no disrespect.”

 

He honestly didn’t but he just didn’t expect to be called on it either. They seem to know that too with their tepid nods and quick excuses.

 

But Loki is determined to have his answer. “Wait.”

 

He follows them back to their stall filled with leather goods, furs, and small iron works. Masterfully made trinkets and crafts that would make rich gifts but for their materials. Why buy a necklace of silvery bone or golden antler, when you can have one of actual silver or gold just across the way?

 

“Is there something I can help you with?” The young man seems tired, he tends a small brazier filled with dying embers while his grandmother still stares at him from beyond her thick wrappings.

 

“You said she thought I was someone else. I want to know who.”

 

He sighs and turns to her, Loki has to strain to hear the words, not that he understands them. He just wants to hear them. She replies with quick clipped words.

 

“She says you look like a king.”

 

Loki preens a bit. Completely unnecessary and therefore: necessary. “Well, good of her to recognize current and future royalty when she sees it.” 

 

“Right.” The boy isn’t so rude to roll his eyes but his voice does that enough.

 

The grandmother must have some command of Asgardian or complete command and simply prefers your tongue to his. She frowns and speaks again.

 

“ _ The _ king.” Her grandson translates. “She says your cloak makes you look like  _ the _ king. She wants to know how you, a peasant, came by it.”

 

The revelation takes the sting off of the slight. This is yours. He knows the treasures of your home are hard to comeby here. You fled there with little more than a few trinkets and a nearly fatal wound. But you  _ gave _ him this. You gave him a king’s cloak. Your father’s cloak. You wrapped it around his shoulders and smiled to see him in it. 

 

And said nothing of it. 

 

“It was a gift this peasant didn’t deserve.”

 

The grandmother laughs. 

 

“She says she agrees with you sir. Now if you’ll excuse us, we have to get back to work. Chit chatting with peasants drives paying customers away.”

 

Loki laughs at the terrific lie. “And when was the last time you had a paying customer b...gentleman?”

 

The grandson makes an incredulous face and Loki can only shrug. “What? I don’t know what to call you.”

 

“Don’t call me anything as you’ll be wasting both our times. You couldn’t pronounce my name anyway.”

 

“Try me.”

 

He does. He speaks, Loki repeats, and he makes it sound like gibberish.

 

“If you’re just gonna make fun of us for being Southlanders then…”

 

Loki tries again. Earnestly, but the young man is not amused.

 

“We have customers.”

  
Their stall is at the end of a long narrow corridor, covered in shadow, and hidden from the main walkway and high trafficked areas. They do enough business to keep fed and keep the coals hot but not much else.

 

“Yes...you do.” Loki takes his gold, all his gold, and deposits it before them. It's just his ‘walking’ money but it’s more than they’ve made in their years here. “Me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you!  
> Danke!  
> Gracias!  
> Thanks
> 
> For all your kind comments.


	6. Loki: An Inconvenient Truth pt 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dead.  
> Not.  
> etc.

The boy’s name is Hazzoula. His grandmother’s name is just that, Grandmanme.  

 

“But Miss Grandmanme to you.” 

 

“So noted.”

 

He can’t learn much in a twenty minute crash course, not even the basics. But he’s not interested in the basics.

 

“Mwen dezole.” Hazzoula instructs.

 

“Me wen de sol ae.”

 

Hazzoula cringes but tries not to discourage his student. “Closer. One more time.”

 

Loki tries again but is interrupted with a tap on his shoulder from Miss Grandmanmae. He listens to her and wonders if old age will add the same depth and smoke to your voice as it has hers. 

 

He wants to find out.

 

“She wants to know why you’re so keen on learning this.” Her grandson interprets. “Do you have business in the Southlands?”

 

“In a manner of speaking.”

 

“Do you know what it's like there?” Hazzoula asks with no words from his grandmother to translate. 

 

“You don’t?”

 

“Everything I know is from her stories. I was born here. In Asgard.”

 

“And your grandmother?”

 

“There. So was my mom. Grandmanme came here with her forever ago. Long before me.”

 

Loki turns to the old woman, having an inkling she understands him. “How did you end up here?”

 

Her shoulders shake with the sigh, but there’s fire under the smoke of her voice when she speaks. 

 

“War took her family, her wife, and her livelihood,” her grandson translates. “Everyone and everything except her baby: my mom, and a lump of gold she managed to snatch before the rebels came. She says a man in a black cloak saved her and when she tried to show her gratitude by giving him the gold he didn’t take it. “I’m a king. I’ve got too much gold. I’d rather have a daughter as pretty and brave as yours.”

 

You are, he thinks.

 

“She’s asking if your business in the Southland is with the king? If you have his cloak surely you...”

 

“Tell her he is dead.”

 

The grandmother does not need translation to understand him, her wrinkled face folds deeper in her sadness.

 

He’s not given to comfort the grieving, nor telling the truth. But for her, your countrywoman, he does both. “But I can say this: his wish was fulfilled. He had a daughter and she is pretty and brave and foolish and stubborn and kind and loving. She exceeds the sum of her father’s wishes.”

 

He remembers the face you made, the lost smile you wore when you wrapped him in your father’s cloak. He too remembers that face folding like crumpled parchment, warm smile freezing with his icy words.

 

“And she exceeds the sum of my own worth.”

 

Miss Grandmanmae laughs, rich and warm like the Southlands. She speaks to him, and Hazzoula need not assist.

 

“You are sick. Go. Mend words. Be healed.”

 

He smirks, suspicions about her language skills confirmed. 

 

“Did I not also say she’s stubborn? I don’t think a simple ‘I’m sorry’ will…”

 

“What you do, matters. What you say, matters.  _ How _ you say matters too: mwen dezole.” She taps him on his chest, fingers poking his heart in time with the syllables.

 

“Mwen dezole.” he repeats, tongue and lips finally grasping pronunciation. It’s high, mixed in with the nasal sound of his native Asgardian but the old woman smiles anyway.

 

Satisfied.

 

**

 

You are easy to find. 

 

You’re haggling with a recalcitrant merchant knowing full well this bushel of greens is worth more, also knowing full well your princely coin purse has disappeared and you can’t afford it unless he returns.

 

But he has returned.

 

“Give her what she wants.” He says, dropping the gold in their hands.

 

They do. 

 

Your eyes don't quite make it to his face. They stop somewhere near the ties to your father's cloak, maybe even his chin and lips before they snap back to swirling snow piling up around them. “I thought you were gone.”

 

“I was.”

 

“Where’d you go?”

 

His nerves sour his stomach. That matriarch thinks his pronunciation good enough, but you may not. What if time in her new home has dulled her ears to the sound of the old? Would you know? Would you care? The uncertainty frightens him in a small way, exposes him to the elements of your approval, your judgement.

Vulnerability is a sickness he’s never been inoculated to.

 

But his medicine, he takes as he gives you an ugly lump of gold.

 

“ _ Mwen dezole _ .” He says.

 

You blink twice, three times, startled before you find your words to reply.

 

_ “Speak you Southron?” _

  
He shakes his head. “I have no idea what you just said.”

 

You laugh. Loudly. But there’s no derision in it, only warmth. Only a fire that old age will smoke in time. It sparks a fire in him, warms through to his bones. The snow and cold never bothered him, but your laugh could keep him warm for the season. His life.

 

“Where did you--?” A cough cuts off your question. You ask again. “How did you--?”

 

Another cough stops it short.

 

You open your mouth to speak again but only a ragged, dry cough escapes you. Your face contorts, you cover your mouth but you cough so hard you reach for your chest.

 

Then you double over, dropping your bag of herbs and incense and gold.

 

“Princess!” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HATE that y'all waited so long for an update for it to be this short. Honest to stars thought it was longer. Oh well. More cometh. I promise. You shouldn't have to wait almost month for an update tho.


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